


Surfeit

by hellkitty



Category: Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Forced Orgasm, M/M, Medical Kink, Mildly Dubious Consent, Sticky Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-23
Updated: 2012-11-23
Packaged: 2017-11-19 07:43:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/570848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yeah I'm on a PWP kick apparently? Check the warnings. Ratchet/Drift, fluids, with a side/reference of some sort of 'used' relationship by Rodimus and Ultra Magnus which may be distasteful to some.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Surfeit

It wasn’t his problem, Ratchet figured. He knew what was going on, but it wasn’t his problem: Drift was a free mech, and if he wanted to let himself get treated like that by Rodimus and Ultra Magnus, well…it was none of Ratchet’s business. Just because he didn’t like it didn’t mean it was wrong.

Until he saw Drift in the washracks, one palm flat on the washrack wall, the other frantically working his spike, Drift’s face a mask of frustrated concentration, so intent he didn’t even notice Ratchet walk in, stop, and walk out.  Ratchet knew all too well what was going on there. And that was a medical problem.

And then it _was_ his problem. And Ratchet didn’t have problems. For long.

Drift managed a smile as he edged over to the exam table, leaning his hips against it. “You wanted to see me?”

“Hop up on the table.”  A negligent gesture with his hand.

“Everything all right?” Drift shot him a look, almost nervous. Oh yes, Drift, Ratchet thought, this is a test.

“You tell me.” Ratchet approached, pulling out a simple scanner, waiting.

“Me? Everything’s fine. Better than fine.”

“Is it,” Ratchet said dryly.

Drift’s optics shot from side to side, puzzled. “Ye-es?”

“Then scoot your aft onto that table. Now.”

An uncertain nod, as Drift levered himself up onto the table.

Oh, Drift, you can’t even learn to hide the wince, can you?  Ratchet sighed. The worst kind of patient, really.  “Like this?”

Right.  Primus forbid Drift actually admit he had a problem. “Close enough,” Ratchet said.  “Now, tell me.” He leaned closer, pressing two fingers around the abdominal plating. “How does this feel?”

A quick suck of air. “Fine-OW!,” Drift yelped. “What was that for?” He rubbed the top of his head, where Ratchet had tweaked one of his helm finials. Hard.

“That was ‘for’ lying to me, Drift.”

“I’m not lying!”

“Drift.” Ratchet glowered. “Let me tell you what’s going on.”  He folded his arms over his chassis. “There’s a condition—I’ll spare you the technical name.  When a mech takes in,” an irritated sound—he hated having to explain this stuff, “too much transfluid.” There, he hoped that was discreet enough, “In too short a time, it can become a) painful and b)a problem.”

“Oh.” A grimacing, nervous smile. “That’s…uh, interesting trivia.”

“Is it.” Ratchet leaned forward again, pressing on the abdomen, right at the top of the fluid reservoir.

Drift winced again, his hand closing over Ratchet’s.  He cycled a vent of air. “All right. Yeah. I know that. From before the war.” He tried a casual shrug which crashed and burned. “I can take care of it.”

“I saw you trying.” Because it was time to throw away the kid gloves. Drift clearly needed blunt force. “It didn’t work, did it?”

Drift’s mouth fell open. He blinked, closed his mouth, optics falling to one side. “N-not really.” 

“Not really.”  Ratchet shook his head, reaching into a cabinet below the exam slab, coming up with an expander disk. “Open.”

Drift’s optics flew open. “You can’t be serious.”

Ratchet narrowed his optics. “Do I look like I’m joking?” 

“No.” Drift frowned, grinding his mouthplates together, before he reluctantly reached down, flipping open his interface hatch. “I just….”

“You’ll ‘just’ lie the frag down and let me take care of this.” Seriously, could Drift be any more of a squimy little newframe about this? Especially with his history.  Like this wasn’t weird enough already.

“Ratchet. Really. I can—“

“You can’t. Obviously. If you insist on doing….that, the least I can do is stop you from getting permanent systems damage.”

Drift subsided, his mouth working uncomfortably.  But he spread his thighs obediently when Ratchet tapped on them, and only made one pitiful little squeak when Ratchet inserted the expander. 

“This,” Ratchet said, optics going distant as his fingers slipped into the valve, working the disk into place, “is going to keep the fluid chamber open when you overload. Which will,” a pause, wriggling the disk up against the ceiling node, as Drift tried hard not to squirm his hips at the intimate touch, “allow the chamber to drain.” 

“So the next time I—“

“The next time you overload will be in…about five kliks,” Ratchet said.  He tugged at Drift’s hand, his other slick with Drift’s valve lubricant. “Stand up.”

Drift looked like he had about two hundred questions colliding in his cortex, but at least he knew better than to question, swinging his legs gingerly around the slab, and onto the floor, one hand brushing at his exposed equipment.

Ratchet swatted the hand aside, stepping closer, just in case Drift got any funny ideas. His slick fingers probed between Drift’s legs, finding the valve’s entrance.

“You’re not….”

“You’re not really showing a good grasp on reality. Because it looks like I am,” Ratchet said, dryly. “Right now.”

“Ratchet.” Something almost pleading in his tone.

“Don’t you ‘Ratchet’ me,” Ratchet said. He slipped the two fingers back into the valve, circling around the rim just enough to make this not-entirely-clinical. “If you’re going to let them treat you like some buymech, you could at least take precautions.”

A stunned, sheepish silence, the valve squeezing against his fingers, mortified.

Ratchet’s mouth tightened, as he worked his fingers in the valve, curling them toward the valve’s front in a sort of ‘come here’ gesture.  Drift’s ventilation caught, in spite of himself, his spike clicking open, the head jutting out, primed and eager. “Exactly what I mean, Drift. When was the last time they even touched your spike? Or let you touch it?” He didn’t need an answer: the embarrassed drop of Drift’s optics said it all.

He sighed. “You deserve better. That’s all I’m going to say.”  Because this kind of talk was a moodkill for sure. Not that he was particularly trying to create mood, and as primed as Drift was, it wasn’t really necessary. Then again, who knew? Maybe Drift would actually listen if he was near to overloading. 

Drift’s hands clutched at the slab’s lip, as though bracing himself. Ratchet could feel a wash of heat against his wrist, the valve calipers fluttering around the inexorable pace of his fingers curling and uncurling against them. His ventilations came in short huffs of air, his optics staring almost unseeing into Ratchet’s.  A thin moan escaped his vocalizer: Ratchet could feel the thighs trembling, tensing under the build of charge. The spike jutted between them, throbbing with neglect.  Ratchet knew better than to touch it till he’d relieved the pressure from the valve’s chamber.

Drift’s body jolted, abruptly, his chestplate bumping against Ratchet’s, as the valve clamped down on his fingers.  He gave a choked cry, that seemed a vocalization of the shudder that tore through his frame, as the expander caught at the reservoir’s lip, holding it open. Transfluid, hot and silver, poured from the reservoir, flooding over Ratchet’s trapped fingers, splattering into a puddle on the floor between the silver-streaked thighs. A moment, another ripple. There were two crunching sounds as the swordsmech’s powerful hands dented the metal of the slab, his head tipping back as his own spike released, jetting a scalding spurt of fluid on Ratchet’s chassis.

Huh. Should have expected that, Ratchet thought. Buildup from all the times Drift had tried to resolve the issue himself. He stilled, feeling waves of energy wash against him from Drift, trying not to take too unprofessional an interest in the shivering lines of Drift’s frame.  So much had changed, and Drift was still…

…an idiot. A stupid, reckless idiot who didn’t seem to think his body deserved any respect. Ratchet could feel another lecture bubbling up in his vocalizer. 

Drift gave a soft distant moan, optics refocusing slowly, almost drowsily, until they saw the silver droplets on Ratchet’s chassis. He snapped upright. “I…oh…let me take care of that. I’m really…sorry.”

Ratchet swatted his hand away. It was only smearing the liquid over his armor anyway. “I got it. Let it be a lesson to you, Drift. Don’t let this get this bad from now on.” He reached in, hooking the expander disk with one finger, before withdrawing his fingers, slowly.

“…all right.” Drift quivered as the disk scraped over sensitized mesh, but it was absent of pain, this time, just a sated sort of pleasure.

The moment got thick between them, and he could see Drift formulating some likely awkward thank you (because, really, how do you thank someone for shoving their hand up your valve?) when a sudden clatter to his left shattered the air.

“I-I’m sorry!” First Aid dropped to the floor, scrambling after the datapad that had slipped from his distracted fingers. “I just….”  He at least looked mortified and sheepish.  The two next to him did not.  At all.

“Tell me,” Swerve said, bumping his elbow against Rewind’s shoulder. “Oh frag. Tell me you got that.” 

“I got it,” Rewind tapped his lens.

“Good. Because that? That was like the hottest thing ever. Seriously. Molten. Like. Kinks I didn’t even know I _had_.”

“It was simple medical procedure,” Ratchet said, squaring his shoulders. The whole ‘cloaking in professional dignity’ would probably been slightly more successful if he didn’t have a long line of Drift’s spike’s fluid up tracing up his chassis. Still, they were cowed into silence at least, First Aid nodding apologetically, his optics circling Drift’s still-exposed equipment as though they were magnetized.

“I-I should…go?” Drift’s voice sloped up into a question. 

Ratchet nodded. “I’ll take care of…this.” It was a pretty sizeable puddle. Maybe Drift would get the hint. “Clean up over there. And you’re coming back in a decacycle for a follow up.”

“I'M SO THERE!” Swerve called out.


End file.
